What I am about to share here is nothing new. The feelings are as old as the Art of the Word. This is not my first time feeling these feelings, nor will it be my last

and I know I am not the only one. There are others who have felt this way and died millions of tiny little deaths inside their souls, and there are people, as yet unborn, who will inherit this awful legacy.

Writer’s Block.

How does one kill a feeling? How does one gain mastery over it? Conquer it? Most important of all, how does one not let it cripple you?

The blank pages staring back at you, sometimes unyielding, sometimes pleading and sometimes just stone cold dead, aren’t the worst things about this affliction. The plague of self-doubt that tags along as a side effect? Yes. That is quite the cyanide pill.

Writer’s Block. Bloc. Blog.

Blocked.

Like a stuffed up bladder with no release. Like killer constipation. Because this feeling? It’s as shitty as fresh dog poop on the heel of your expensive new shoes.